Force

It was a good day. It was warm, he went to the shelter and got lunch, and the people were exceptionally generous, and he had about six złoty on him. He desperately wanted to buy wine, but it was better to save his money for a rainy day. More than once he'd gone hungry just because he was thirsty, only to wake up the next day all sore and penniless. It was getting gray. Fewer and fewer people were walking the streets, and more and more people like him were visible. Another two or three hours and the dark city would be filled with whores, drug addicts, punks, skinheads, and all the other riffraff he so passionately hated. The worst of the frost didn't terrify him as much as the prospect of being beaten by those who thought they were better than him because they were young and had their lives ahead of them. Or maybe he was getting hit because they saw their future reflected in him? Who knows? They were afraid that when they grew up, they might end up like him? Well, not everyone can be rich. He shuffled lightly along the sidewalk, searching for a spot to sleep. He had his own place where no one had bothered him until now. A quiet street with a large pile of waste paper against the wall of a tenement building. The walls protected him from the wind, the paper kept him warm on frosty nights. The only streetlamp had a long-broken lampshade, and no one bothered to replace it. During the day, few people passed by because of the mountain of garbage that had become his shelter, even his home. The unpleasant, sickly smell emanating from the dumpster protected him from uninvited guests, so he sometimes even left some things there that he didn't feel like going out with, or when it was warm enough not to have to carry all his clothes. Sleeping at the station wasn't any more pleasant than that pile of newspapers. Too much competition, and the police were always on the lookout. His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of three boys blocking his path. They looked to be about seventeen or eighteen years old. His close-cropped hair, tight pants, and combat boots spoke volumes. He nodded.

"Where are you going in such a hurry, Grandpa?" The tallest one approached him and pushed him, causing him to stagger and lean against the wall. The other two positioned themselves to block his escape. He already knew he'd be lucky to be able to go anywhere on his own after this encounter.

"Money!" It was safe to assume they meant cash. He fell. Reaching into his pocket for his only coins, which would get him through the next day, he tried to avoid any of the harder kicks.

"Is that all, stinker? Just enough for two wines!" They weren't happy. He kept saying he didn't have any more, but now it wasn't about how much money he had. They were having a great time kicking him and calling him the worst names. After a few minutes, they got bored, maybe afraid he was dead, because just in case, he stopped moving. They walked away, laughing to themselves and pushing each other. They forgot about their victim; they had money, they could have a drink. Lying on the sidewalk, he wondered what he was doing with it all. What a lousy life. Money that could have lasted all day tomorrow, maybe even two, had gone into a bank transfer. If only he could have a drink! Those stupid bastards didn't even know what six złoty meant to him; they just had it for wine. Tears welled up in his eyes. He didn't have the strength to get up. With every breath, he felt a stabbing pain in his chest, blood dripped from his nose, and his groin burned like a living flame. "One of those bastards kicked me in the balls! God damn you! I wonder if you'd move me if I had as much strength as you! God, give me the strength they have! Curse your bald heads! CURSES!!!" The scream turned into an incomprehensible gurgle, and the strain of his throat made him cough horribly. He lay in the middle of the quiet, dark, empty street, longing to be strong, as strong as those persecuting him.

* * *

They walked down the street, wondering which store would still be open to buy alcohol. Grandpa didn't even put up any resistance; such people never do anyway. All it takes is a few kicks, a curse, and the money jumps out like from a piggy bank.

The black man was their boss. The biggest of them, and he had the most nerve. He taught them how to get money when they needed it. Długi, on the other hand, had interesting ideas when they were bored, knew plenty of jokes, and could even talk so much that some lost track of their plans when he let out a string of curses. Only Kula didn't stand out in any way. He had contacts, sometimes got some weed, sometimes a stolen number, and generally, he was very calm. When they went to a brawl, he didn't break away, but he never came up with an idea on his own; he deferred to others.

They always roamed in groups. The streets weren't very safe at night; walking alone, you could stumble upon punks, and then it was tough. Trash is always brave in a group, but when one goes alone, he's as docile as a lamb. They laughed, recalling the last brawl with the punks. It started innocently. Two brigades of five people met and shared their opinions of each other. After a brief exchange, the guys lost their nerve and left. Then reinforcements arrived from both sides, so when the cops arrived, there were about thirty people fighting. The batons were standing to the side, preparing to separate the combatants. The funniest thing was that everyone immediately united against the cops, and an even bigger brawl ensued.

They took the bottles to the construction site. A new housing estate was being built, and they could have a good time running around the unfinished apartment blocks. They had enough for five bottles of Jabol in total. Just enough for three, just enough to get a head full of alcohol. They quickly drained the bottles and started wondering what to do next.

"Długa, don't piss me off, think of something.

" "Fuck off! Think of something yourself, you fucking do. You think if you're the boss, you can boss me around?

" "I'm telling you, don't piss me off, think of something." Czarny, with a malicious smile, tried to unsettle his interlocutor. He repeatedly nudged him on the shoulder, waiting for a lively reaction. His head was buzzing pleasantly, and he needed to let off some steam. He liked to get a little carried away after drinking; it gave him a pleasant feeling of freedom from the mundane, everyday worries.

"Leave me alone!" Długi clearly wasn't in the mood for any fun.

"Kula, tell him, he better not piss me off, or I'll get mad.

" "Don't piss him off.

" "Did you hear that? Think, damn it, or I'll die of boredom.

" "Fuck! I don't feel like doing anything. Get the fuck away from me, and if you're bored, jerk off.

" "I'll fuck off!" With that, Czarny jumped, pushing Długi off the bricks they were sitting on. They rolled on the floor for a moment, improvising a fight, until the attacked man broke free from his attacker and ran away.

"I wonder if you'll find me now, you idiot!" a voice echoed in the darkness.

"I'll find me, I fucking will!" Czarny stood up, dusted off his pants, and gave chase. As he ran through the floors, all he heard was laughter and unfavorable opinions about himself and his family, which he didn't pay back. After a dozen or so minutes of jumping through the floors, he had had enough.

"Okay, Long, get out, you win!" he shouted, but a mocking laugh answered him. "He'll come back when he gets bored," he thought, and was getting ready to go downstairs to look for Kula when he heard a prolonged scream interrupted by a dull sound like a falling sandbag. He froze. He listened for a moment, but now there was silence, broken only by the soft gusts of wind.

"Long? Long!"—no answer. He waited a moment and began running downstairs. After a moment, he heard Kula's piercing scream. He picked up the pace.

"Black, come here, fuck! Goddamn it, Black, FASTER!!" He took the stairs three at a time, risking breaking his legs, but he knew something serious had happened. Kula wasn't a coward and wouldn't be scared of anything. "Fuck, I think the punks got him!" On the ground floor, he searched for something to defend himself with. A five-foot-long rod was the perfect tool. He ran outside and saw Kula leaning over a twitching body. At first, he wondered who it could be, but then he knew. In his mind's eye, he saw a body flying from the window and falling to the ground in front of the building. He walked up to them both on weak legs. Long lay sprawled in an unnatural position, his head tilted strangely, blood slowly leaking from his mouth and ears. For a moment, he tried to speak, moved, but the only effect was red bubbles forming and bursting on his lips. He froze, his eyes fixed on the sky.

"What the fuck happened here?" Czarny's question might not have been the wisest, but he had to break the silence, which was already starting to become unbearable.

"He probably fell out, right?" What a question, what an answer.

"Kula, let's get the fuck out of here," he said mechanically, staring at the corpse. "We're getting the fuck out of here, we're getting the fuck out of here, I'm telling you, we 're getting the fuck out of here.

" He looked Kula straight in the eyes and saw fear mixed with utter astonishment. He wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible, to run anywhere, but he couldn't move. He felt as if his feet were rooted to the spot. They stared at each other for a moment, and suddenly, as if someone had turned on the power, they simultaneously ran toward the street. They stopped on the sidewalk, breathing heavily.

"We have to go back there, Czarny.

" "No fucking way. I'm not going there for fuck's sake.

" "We have to. Maybe he's still alive.

" "You're crazy! Haven't you seen what he looks like? He probably broke his neck."

"We have to do something. Holy shit, he's our buddy!" Kula was clearly in shock. Czarny slapped him twice on the cheeks with his open hand and grabbed his arms. "Honestly, someone should hit me in the face too, I'd feel better." The panic in the slapped man's eyes slowly subsided. They stood there, facing each other, until at one point Kula wriggled out from under Czarny's arms and backed out onto the street, as if afraid of being hit again. He was taking a deep breath to say something when the huge, heavy-duty destiny caught up with him, crushing his fragile body under its powerful wheels. The car, its engine roaring, accelerated and disappeared around the bend. The last of the three stood and... stood. Streaks of blood trailed across the asphalt for a good few meters. Looking at the mangled hunk of bloody flesh, it was hard to see any resemblance to a human being. The thought that his buddy was lying there terrified him like an electric spark. He couldn't find any connection between the Bullet and the body lying there. The Bullet was the Bullet, and what lay there in the street was something alien, something disgusting, something he needed to escape from as quickly as possible, to escape both of today's events. He clutched his head and staggered forward. Slowly at first, then faster, faster still, and again and again... At one point, he fell to his knees. "Oh my god, what a day. What now? What now? I don't know. I'm going home, we'll see tomorrow. Fuck, if the police find out I was with them, that'll be something." He slowly recovered. Once he was able to think about tomorrow and how to protect himself, it wasn't so bad. He stood up and calmly began walking. He reached his skyscraper automatically. If anyone had asked him where he was going and what he'd seen, he wouldn't have been able to say anything. He entered the elevator, pressed number 10 with a trembling hand, and saw his reflection in the spit-covered and scratched mirror hanging in the cabin. Eyes gleaming with fear and panic stared at him. His entire face was pale, almost green. The elevator began to rise with a prolonged groan. First floor, second, third... "I need to get some sleep." Fifth, sixth... He leaned against the opposite wall. Eighth, ninth... He stood at the door, ready to open it when he felt terribly light. He was surprised to find his feet lifting off the floor, and saw the numbers on the individual floors flashing rapidly. Seven, six, five, four... "What the hell..." A terrifying bang woke half the building's residents. Some went out to the stairwell to check what had happened, and one by one they learned about the broken elevator. They exchanged critical remarks about the administration, someone called the police, and everyone went back to their apartments ,

unaware of the most important thing.

He woke up. Something had happened, he didn't know what, but it was definitely something good. He still felt the effects of the kicking, lying in the middle of the sidewalk, but he still had some strength left in him. He knew he could get up. He felt strong, so strong that now he could face ten skinheads. He briskly walked to his bed, covered himself with newspapers, and looked up at the sky. He smiled at the stars and suddenly realized he'd never done this before. "What happened? I feel like someone's attached wings to me. Simply wonderful!" He fell asleep with an inexplicable premonition that tomorrow something would change, that things would be better. He dreamed of flying, of big shiny cars, apartments with their own elevators, and he knew he was dreaming of his life.